


The Part That Stares

by Gnilnim27



Series: The Dead Don't Share [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Serial Killers, Will is losing it, disturbing imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnilnim27/pseuds/Gnilnim27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The buzzing of flies fills every space. He can’t breathe. One lands on his blood covered hand, then another. Breathe, he needs to breathe. There’s blood up to his arms all down the front of his shirt. His chest is so tight it hurts. The deer has been silent for a long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Part That Stares

The dead don’t share  
Though they reach towards us  
From the grave (I swear  
they do) they do  
not hand their hearts to you  
They hand their heads  
 _the part that stares_

-Stan Rice ‘Their Share’-

 

 

“Go slowly, don’t press too hard. You don’t want to damage the organs.”

“Like this?” Abigail asks, drawing the hunting knife carefully through flesh.

“Yes,” Will breaths. He watches the way she holds the knife, steady, not a tremor, the incision clean and smooth. He feels a smile stretch across his face and something warm curl in his chest. Pride.

Abigail mouth falls slightly open in concentration. The blood is bright on her hands. She pauses and runs her fingers through hair, slowly like petting an animal, matting the loose strands and smearing blood over skin. An artist with a paintbrush. “She’s so beautiful,” Abigail sighs.

“She is,” Will agrees absently as he takes a scalpel and makes a small incision on the girl’s arm. “Don’t stop, sweetheart.” Abigail smiles guiltily and tears her eyes away from him. Will reaches for a hammer and a chisel. He pushes the chisel into the small cut, through flesh, fats and muscle until he hits bone. The blood makes a sound not unlike rubbing fingers on a wet surface. _Squelches._ He lifts the hammer and strikes. The sound is oddly metallic but underneath it, is the resounding crack of bone. He steadies the chisel and slams the hammer down on the hilt. This time, he hears the bone split in two. 

“I’ve finished,” Abigail says, peering at him. Will turns to look at her work. The blood is almost something he doesn’t even notice now. It’s background to a portrait. Abigail had carefully removed most of the organs and set them aside. It’s neat, meticulously so. Will couldn’t have done it better himself.

Will pulls her close and kisses her hair. He smells lavender and babybreaths. “That’s my little girl.” He passes her the scalpel. “Now you try.”

 

\--

 

The blood on the table is sticky, half-dried, dripping reluctantly on to the floor. Will gasps. His glasses are hanging at the tip of his fingers. He tries to breathe; it’s like breathing through a vacuum. He breathes in a million particles of blood and air. They stick to his throat and coat his tongue and taste like burned metal.

Someone touches his shoulder. “Hey, you okay?” Katz asks. Will blinks at her concern. “Will?”

He looks at his feet and the floor. Automatically, he wipes his glasses with the hem of his shirt and takes his time with it so he doesn’t have to look up. “I – I’m fine.”

He can’t see her but he knows Katz is pulling her incredulous face. “No, you’re not fine,” she retorts. A shadow falls over him, looming and boulder-like. It reminds Will of Ozymandius, a statue in a desert full of sand. 

“Shake it off, Will. Whatever it is, just shake it off,” Jack says slowly, like soothing a child with a tantrum. Will nods erratically and swallows. “Okay,” Jack says and gives him three seconds to collect himself. “Tell me what you see.” 

Will approaches the table, stopping a foot away from the blood. The body on the table is a broken thing, limbs akimbo and wrong angles. Her mouth is open and her head tilted where her neck had been broken. She is a scarecrow of a human being.

“Each of her bones were broken systematically from her metacarpals to her phalanges. Tibia, femur and larger bones were broken using a hammer and a chisel.” Katz pauses as she examines the body. “It’s, um, pretty professional.”

Will stares down the length of the body. No organs removed, no meat carved out. She’s so beautiful… He swallows reflexively. “He hates her,” Will says. “Or, whoever she’s supposed to represent. The bones were broken while she was alive and… conscious.” He nods towards the strap marks on her wrist and ankles. “His aim was simple. Maximum pain. He wanted her to suffer.” The sound of metal on bone. He hears her screaming, each scream punctuated by his steady hammering. _Thunk._ Those eyes, open wide and streaming tears of fear. _Thunk._ Tears of fear. He likes how that sounds. She was such a bitch. Everything about her disgusted him. He stares down into her cold dead bruised and broken face. “I bet you’d begged the whole time,” Will hisses. “You’re lucky. I would have _cut_ you open.” _Like this?_

It takes him a long moment to realize the room has fallen quiet or the fact that he is leaning over the body. He blinks and steps back. His first instinct is to make excuses but what excuse could you make for sneering at a corpse? The floor looks up at him. He can feel the weight of every gaze. “She’s just a substitute,” he mutters. “But something about her triggered his outrage. You need to find that connection.”

Silence.

“Okay,” Jack says after a beat. “Will, a word. Everyone else, do your job.” He strides out of the room and Will follows, avoiding eye contact with Katz when she squeezes his arm. Encouragingly, he knows, but the flinch is instinctive. His head is down, she can’t see.

Jack leads him out of the warehouse, into the empty industrial parking lot. The sun is setting, the sky azure and pink in the far distance. Will hears a pack of stray dogs fighting, their wails echoing between the empty warehouses. They aren’t real. Except Jack looks around as well and Will doubts himself.

“I’m sorry,” Will says.

Jack sighs. “Don’t be sorry. Just don’t… try not to say it aloud, Will. I don’t want to have to leave you at Baltimore Hospital.” It’s meant to be a joke. Jack is smiling. It’s not a joke. Will forces a small smile of his own. It feels torn into his face.

“Wouldn’t want that,” he agrees.

“Go home. Eat something nice, scald yourself in the shower and sleep,” Jack advises. “But snap out of it.”

“It’s not something I can turn off, Jack,” Will snaps, exasperated.

Jack lets out a stream of air. It billows white and curls in the cold air. Will didn’t realize how cold it had become. The sun is a far away line of ill-looking orange but the sky above them is already dark. “I know. You told me.” Jack looks up into the night. “But for your sake, Will, you really need to learn how.”

 

\-- 

 

“Jack took me off the case,” Will grumbles as he sits himself onto Hannibal's couch, disgruntled and still seeing different shades of red every time he blinks. “Thank you,” he adds absently when Hannibal passes him a mug of steaming liquid . It turns out to be chocolate. He sips it, letting it slide smooth and warm down his throat and spread through his chest.

Hannibal smiles. He hasn’t changed into pajamas and despite the late hour, is still dressed in woolen slacks and a plain shirt, rolled up to the elbows. Hannibal looks relaxed, the way he looks when he’s cooking. “I thought you would have appreciated the break.”

“I also like to see things to the end,” Will replies. Hannibal shrugs, a gesture which would have seemed indecisive on anyone else. But with Hannibal it’s just an elegant tilt of the head, non-committal. Will studies his mug. Plain white, like so many other things Hannibal owns.

“I’m sorry for barging in so late.”

“Don’t apologize,” Hannibal says. “I had nothing to do. Besides, I value your company.”

Will snorts and smiles. “Well, you and no one else.” He considers telling Hannibal about his day. About Abigail. Then changes his mind. It wasn’t a topic he wanted to dwell on again today.

“Surely you do not believe that,” Hannibal replies. “Dr. Bloom values your company as well. Highly, may I add.”

Will hesitates, setting his half-finished mug onto the table. “Yeah, I know. She cares. How’s the leg?” he asks changing the subject. Hannibal gives him a look that shows he knows exactly what Will is doing but plays along anyway.

“Much better, thank you. It was merely a minor wound.”

“And how are you?” Will asks. “Psychologically?” He is in no position to analyze Hannibal but he wants to know.

Hannibal purses his lips in thought. “May I remind you that apart from being a psychiatrist, I am seeing one as well?” Hannibal says with a smile.

“I’m not your psychiatrist,” Will points out.

“That you are not,” Hannibal replies. “So I will tell you,” He gestures for Will to finish his chocolate. “Now that I’ve had time to meditate… I feel relieved. Glad to be alive.”

Will lets out a quiet breath, his heart beat quickening. He lips are suddenly dry. “What did you feel when you killed Tobias Barge? Did _you_ feel… powerful?” The question sounds wrong when it comes out, disdainful, mocking. For a second, Will thinks he has gone too far. He thinks Hannibal might throw him out of his house.

But Hannibal’s eyes crinkle in amusement. He looks close to laughing. “It’s not everyday someone throws my words back at me,” he says. In a more serious tone, he adds, “But Will, what you had gone through and what I’d experienced are not similar. We do not process them the same way.” Hannibal watches him for a while. “When I killed Tobias Barge, I felt a sense of… endurance. One may suppose it is the same feeling soldiers have when they survive a war or when you have a near death experience. Powerful, in a way, but I would say… more life affirming.” He caught Will’s gaze. “That I had fought a monster. And won.”

Will leans back shakily. “Wish we all could feel that way.”

“You’re different than most people, Will. You perceive things most people never do," Hannibal says gently. “It makes you special.”

Will shrugs and drinks the last of the chocolate. Cold. “If ‘special’ is a euphemism for ‘crazy’.”

“You are not crazy,” Hannibal says. It’s the utter certitude of his voice that makes Will pause, makes something warm spread through him like the chocolate he had drank, makes him want to lean over and press his mouth against Hannibal’s. He’s a little frightened by it.

“I should go home,” Will says, standing.

“Stay the night,” Hannibal says. His gaze is razor sharp like knives, glinting in the light. Will remembers what it was like to be pressed against Hannibal, all sharp angles and warm. He remembers the hard bruising kisses. He had been angry. Moment of insanity. And Hannibal is offering something. 

Will closes his eyes. “Can’t,” he whispers. He wants to give Hannibal a reason, a reason for turning him down. It’s what people do, isn’t it? Make excuses. In the end, he says nothing and picks up his jacket. Hannibal catches him at the door, hand around his wrist in a firm grip. Hands that were wrist deep saving a person, hands that killed a killer. 

Will’s breath stutters as Hannibal leans close. He can feel the brush of Hannibal’s hair against his face. Hannibal stops an inch away, breath puffing warmly on Will’s cheek, all too human. Not the untouchable doctor in the perfectly coiffed suits but someone that can be hurt and broken. “It’s alright,” Hannibal says softly. Will closes the distance between them.

Hannibal taste like chocolate, or maybe it’s Will who taste like chocolate. The kiss is soft and sweeter than it has any right to be. He lets Hannibal set the pace, slow and languid, Hannibal’s tongue curling around his, lips sliding wetly on the edge to something more but never quite. He hates that it steals his breath away and he allows it.

“Night,” Will murmurs and leaves.

 

\--

 

He wakes to the sound of an animal dying.

It’s thin wheezing noise punctuated by guttural grunts which stops suddenly. Then starts again. 

The next thing he’s conscious of is that he’s outside and that he’s cold, goosebumps rising over his skin. In the distance, he can see his house from the lone light in the hall. It looks as if there are two houses, superimposed on top of each other. The first house is a ship with winking lights. Then the mist rolls apart, the house transforms, the light no longer twinkling but steady, shining like the eye of something from the deep.

Will licks his lips. He must not be that far if he can see his house. He shivers and realizes that his clothes are soaked. They stick to his front, damp and heavy. Then he sees the deer. At his bare feet. It had been gutted, entrails pooling out in slippery knots, stomach ripped open, organs on the ground nearly touching his 

The buzzing of flies fills every space. He can’t breathe. One lands on his blood covered hand, then another. Breathe, he needs to breathe. There’s blood up to his arms all down the front of his shirt. His chest is so tight it hurts. The deer has been silent for a long time.Will sucks in blood drenched air and rotting meat.

From the house, the dogs start to bark.

 

\--

 

“Will... _Will_.”

Will nearly jumps when he hears Katz’s voice but he holds himself back and looks up from the files he’s reading with slow owlish precision.

“Hello,” he greets her. Katz stares at him assessingly and he tries not to fidget. “Do you need something?” he asks, studying the notes he made. They are written in a strange looping scrawl. It takes him more than a moment to realize that it’s his handwriting.

“Jack needs you,” Katz says, crossing her arms. “Hey, um, Will? ” she adds, stopping him in the motion of packing. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Will smiles at her left shoulder. It’s strained. He can see how concerned she looks and he wants to tell her not to worry, he’s fine. Please don’t look like that. “I’m… coping,” he says finally.

She sighs, head drooping. Then she says, “We caught the Broken Man. Jack wants you for the interrogation.” 

 

\--

 

Price and Zeller bring him up to date with the case. Four bodies so far and a fifth woman missing. 

Will studies the board, filled with maps and strings and blue marker ink and pictures of more dead girls. They don’t look identical and they are all much older but it makes him feel sick all the same. The notes beside each picture tells him that they were all young, successful women with a bright future ahead of them. And they all lived alone.

“He stalks them, gets to know their schedule, then after that… well, it’s easy, isn’t it?” Zeller asks no one in particular. 

“How did he choose them?” Will asks.

“They were all members of this online dating site.”

Will frowns as Price hands him several files. “We traced the binds and duct tape he used, and through the warehouses he chooses, narrowed down the possible areas he could be staying. He was pretty messy. Left a lot of trace evidence. Oddly, it was his sister who tipped us. She called in to report her brother missing and that she found lots of animal bones in his room. She kinda freaked out.”

“Sister, huh?” Will mutters, flipping through the file of Joseph McAllister.

Zeller peers over his shoulder. “See? We _can_ catch a killer even without you around.” 

“That must reassure you,” Will says, reading the reports as fast as he can and barely registering Zeller’s scowl as he walks out of the lab.

 

\--

 

There’s nothing extraordinary about the Broken Man, except for the fact that he is, in more ways than one, damaged. He gives a semblance of a man curled into himself although he sits upright. On his left hand, his ring and little finger bends awkwardly.... _suspected abuse during childhood_ ….His hair is sandy blond, eyes a little too far apart. It gives him a permanent look of mild surprise. He looks little more than thirty-five at most. 

When Jack sits down, he carves a space into the air by sheer presence. The room feels smaller and larger all at once. Will settles himself against the wall, opposite McAllister whose head is bent.

“Joseph McAllister. You used to be a medical student, I see,” Jack says, leafing through papers he doesn’t need to read. ... _precision and skill, tries to avoid main arteries_ …

McAllister shrugs and mumbles, “I dropped out.”

“So you did. Any idea why?”

McAllister doesn’t answer. Jack sucks in air through his nose but does not expel it. Just holds it in and stares at the top of McAllister’s sandy blond head. Then, he reaches for the pile of papers again and pulls out five photographs. He lays them out one by one in front of Mcallister like a dealer dealing a hand of cards. The fifth one is a smiling picture of Elsie Forbes, the other four are of dead women on steel tables. McAllister studies each like he’s seeing the faces for the first time.

Jack waits. “What did you do to these girls, Joseph?” broken bones mostly had complete fractures… 

“I… I hurt them. I k—killed them.”

“Why did you do it?” Will breaks in for the first time. Joseph McAllister swivels towards him like he had forgotten Will was there and to make up for it, gives him his full attention. Will looks up at the ceiling.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers.

 _“Didn’t mean to?_ ” Jack repeats. His voice rising just slightly, a tolling of a bell getting louder each time. “You deliberately abducted and tortured five young women, four of them to death. It seems you liked to hear them scream. Did you _like_ to hear them scream, Joseph?”

McAllister tries to get Will to look at him. “I didn’t want to,” he sobs. “It started as… as a fantasy. I- I kept having these… images, these ideas… and then… then it wasn’t a fantasy anymore. I couldn’t stop. I wanted to. But I couldn’t stop.” ... _collected animal bones_ ….

“Tell us where Elsie Forbes is,” Jack demands so harshly, McAllister mouth falls open to reply. His lips flap open and close, revealing tongue and blackness, his eyes bulge as if trying to contain the words.

“No.”

“Excuse me?” Jack hisses.

“No,” McAllister whispers.

“You’re going to get the death penalty, Mr. Mcallister. Do not make this harder on yourself.”

Will shifts his weight from one foot to another. “It’s because she’s the special one,” he says, not looking at Jack. “She’s supposed to be the last. For now.”

Jack stares at the photograph, then back at McAllister. “You were abused as a child, Joseph.” Small nod. “Was it your mother?” Headshake. “Lover?” 

The Broken Man hunches further. “She never had any time for us. She worked a lot. But she liked dating…. Sometimes she brought men home, to stay.”

Will walks slowly to the table. None of the women in the photographs look strikingly similar. “These women are not your mother, Joseph. She died years ago.”

“I know,” he replies softly. “I know. But they look like her to me. I always thought of breaking every bone in the bitch’s body. Like how she broke mine. Like how all those filth she brought home… would… they would….” The hard edge leaves his voice and he trails off, right hand reaching instinctively for the fingers of the left but found they were chained to the table.

“Where is Elsie?” Will asks. ... _disappeared late evening yesterday_ ….

“Elsie… that’s a pretty name. I can't tell you. It’s too late anyway.”

Jack stands up and shouts for an agent at the door. He barks out a volley of orders. Will doesn’t care. He sieves through the papers until he finds the photograph he wants. He lays it beside Elsie Forbes’. The room becomes soundless. Jack has taken all the oxygen when he left. McAllister’s eyes move back and forth from the door to Will’s face. The stag is just outside the door. It paws the floor and throws its head high. There’s blood dripping off its antlers. It lands with a minute splash and McAllister blinks a bead of sweat away.

“Your sister and Elsie Forbes look very similar, don’t they?” Will asks, tapping the picture of Ellen McAllister. “Tell me, how much does Ellen resemble your mother?”

McAllister doesn’t move. He’s dead, eyes hazed and wide apart. Then he shudders. “I love my sister,” he whispers.

“Is that why you tried so hard not to kill her? What set it off, Joseph? Did she kick you out of the house?”

McAllister starts to sob again. “She’s getting married,” he chokes out bitterly. 

Will looks at his shaking frame and can’t find an ounce of pity. He looks at the picture of pale dead broken things and leans near enough that McAllister would be forced to listen. He feels calm, calmer than he has ever felt in months. “You’re pathetic. You’re _sloppy_. You leave evidence everywhere you go. You think you can cause so much _pain_ ,” he says softly. “But if you don’t tell me where Elsie Forbes is,” he eyes the photo. “I’m going to find your precious sister and _break_ her. Not just every bone, I’m going to slice her open and cut out her intestines bit by bit. And she is going to _scream_. And if she asks why, I’ll say _this_ is what your brother did.”

McAllister is white with rage or fear, Will can’t tell. Either way, he doesn’t care. McAllister says, barely a sound, “They won’t let you.”

Will looks him in the eyes. Too much red, veins spiraling from the corners like spider webs. “They would never know,” he says with absolute certainty. “My father was a fisherman, Joseph. I’m going to _gut_ her like a fish.” 

Silence. Wide eyes, eyes to far apart, eyeballs quivering, shaking in their sockets.

When Will looks up, Jack Crawford is standing at the door.

 

\--

 

“What were you thinking?” Jack snarls as he pulls on his coat. “Threatening to _disembowel_ a suspect’s sister?”

Will fidgets and he stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks on the balls of his feet. “It worked,” he pointed out. Jack looks around distractedly, then snatches up his hat from the desk. He reads the time of his watch and curses under his breath.

“Will, if something is going on, you need to tell me.”

Will rolls his shoulders and blinks. “It’s… just an act… a persona. It wasn’t… I didn’t mean….”

Jack gives him a long stare, the weight of a million doubts behind it. He looks away with a sigh, pulling on gloves. “The thing about secrets, Will,” he says, brushing past. “They eat at you from the inside.”

 

\--

 

“How is she?”

_“I’m sorry, Will. By the time we got there…. She was already dead.”_

“….”

_“Are you still there?”_

“Yeah… well, thanks, Katz. For calling.”

_“Do you need me—"_

Beep. 

 

\--

 

“We used to walk around in the woods a lot,” Abigail says, picking her way carefully over fallen branches and stones, half buried under the snow. ”During winter.”

“Yeah?” Will’s breath comes out in a long stream of condensed air. The bare limbs of trees stretch out towards the pale sky, a few wrinkled leaves clinging still like they had forgotten to fall. The forest floor is a mesh of twigs and snow that is barely there. Mostly it’s leaves, brown and damp and lifeless. 

“It’s kinda quiet out here, isn’t it?” Abigail asks, peering through the trees, trying to find his house.

“I like it that way,” Will answers as he watches her. The cold had tinged her cheeks pink. “Did you climb the walls and caught a bus here?”

She shoots him a wry smile. “Just like the last time.” She starts walking again, boots plowing on in a steady march. “Dr. Lecter says I should talk to you.”

Will sighs. “It really depends on whether you want to talk to me. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

She regards him a long time and says quietly, “Do you think I’m like my father?”

He takes his time to think because he really wants to give her and honest answer. His stomach clenches painfully. He can feel the knife as it drags up. It hurts like nothing he has ever imagined. In front of him, is the scared terrified face of a young girl. Her hand is on the knife and even as her mouth falls open in horror, she twists it. “Do you remember when you asked me about Nicholas Boyle?”

Abigail’s eyes drift to the ground. “Yes.”

“I don’t like being lied to.”

“I didn’t—“

“Or prodded for information.”

They have stopped walking again. “I know,” Abigail says. “I’m sorry. I thought if… when you found out… that’s it. The end.” She doesn’t cry, gives him a watery smile and shakes her head. He doesn’t smile back and she sniffs, her face crumpling slightly. She looks away again. “I guess, you don’t trust me now.”

There are a million things he wants to ask. Was any of the things she said before is true? If she could lie about this, what else could she been lying about? He looks into her eyes, blue as he can remember. He wants to believe her. He wants to, so badly, he can ignore every little doubt, every little inconsistency. He can do it. “You’re his daughter,” he tells her simply. “But you don’t have to be like him.”

She doesn’t look relieved. Just bites her lip and turns her head to the ground again. They stand in the middle of the woods, unmoving for a long time. “You don’t have to be him either,” Abigail says at last, looking up at him. “You don’t have to be my father. You can’t. You’re not him.”

“I—,” Will starts to say, then stops. Did sixteen year olds ever dress like Abigail, a little girl stuffed into the jacket of a woman, all dark colours and gloves. She has eyes of a much older person, seen things no girl her age should have seen. He wants to hug her but he knows she wouldn’t allow it. So, he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “You’re right.”

Will moves forward, one step at a time. Abigail trails behind. “So, what do we do now?” she asks.

“Depends. Never talk about it. Talk. It’s up to you.” He waits for a reply. “Abigail?” Will turns around and is greeted by silence. “ _Abigail_ ,” he calls. The woods and cold air sucks the sound of his voice and makes it sound small and insignificant. He scans the trees, turning a full circle. All he sees are an impression of bent branches and snow and his house in the distance.

 

\--

 

Hannibal opens the door after Will presses the bell the second time. “Will.” 

Will is shaking so hard, his teeth are chattering. Hannibal gives him a once over and doesn’t say anything else, just lets him in.

Once inside, Will takes of his socks and shoes. The carpet feels real enough, soft enough to sink into. Everything is warm and seemingly real. There’s the smell of roasted wood, heady and thick in the air. Hannibal watches him pace, curiosity evident in his gaze. “Will.”

“What time is it?” Will grits out. 

“A little after eight. Eight twelve at night, to be precise.” Hannibal is still wearing his suit. Will tries to remember if he has seen it before. He doesn’t know.

He nods frantically. “Precise… precise is good.” The carpet is real, it’s soft. He walks up and down a length of it. His hands are flying all over the place, tugs painfully at his hair. He walks up and down.

Hannibal catches his arm and spins him to a halt. “Will, you are freezing. What happened?” 

Hannibal hands are warm. Hannibal is warm, alive, has a pulse. His shirt is silk, smooth to the touch and wrinkles when Will bunches fistful of the material. “Will, look at me.” Hannibal aftershave smells like rain and earth. Will gasps in lungsful of the scent. It’s real, he tells himself. He breathes it in, deep, deep breaths. “Look at me.” Hannibal hands are holding his head, forcing Will’s eyes to meet his. Hannibal’s fingers are buried in his hair, pressed so hard against his skin it hurts and Will is afraid Hannibal is going to press right into his brain.

Will stares into Hannibal’s face. There is real apprehension. “Please,” he finds himself saying. He doesn’t know why he says it so he says it again. And again. Then he can’t stop. It’s the only word that forces itself out into the real world. His fingers latch on to Hannibal’s wrist and digs into flesh. It’s real.

“It’s alright. Calm down. Breathe.”

He wants to tell Hannibal it’s fine. But the words crawl out of his throat and dies before they pass his lips. Instead, he makes a small desperate sound like a dying animal. Hannibal shushes his gently and pulls off his jacket which is damp from the snow and sweat. Then sits him down on the armchair and kneels in front of him.

“When was the last time you slept?”

Will shakes his head. In his chest, his heart taps a staccato rhythm. “I don’t remember.”

“When was the last time you ate? Do you know?”

Will shakes his head again. His throat suddenly feels parched. When was the last time he had something to drink? The last time he bathed? Did he feed his dogs at all? When was the last time he was home? There’s a huge empty blank, liquid paper white. His head _hurts_. 

“Alright,” Hannibal says and starts to rise, probably to cook or something. Will hands fly out to hold him still. 

“Don’t… just. Don’t.” He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to even his breathing. No one disappears, he can still feel the carpet under his bare toes.

With eyes closed, Will traces the fine cheekbones and jaw, follows the curve and modulation of Hannibal’s face, lingers over eyebrows and the curl of each ear. He thinks of fractures and hears the sound of a hammer and chisel against bone. Hannibal’s mouth is a furnace. Will shivers and presses close. Hannibal doesn’t pull away but he doesn’t respond either. 

Will blinks his eyes open. Hannibal says very calmly, “This is not a good idea.” The words hang in the air for a moment, the Will starts to laugh, a hollow unpleasant sound, laughter and not laughter. He thinks he has finally snapped. It feels… liberating.

He feels Hannibal stand but he can’t stop the awful sounds he’s making. He can’t tell if he is still laughing or if he is sobbing. There’s pressure on his shoulder, the faintest warning before he is jerked to his feet. 

When Hannibal kisses him, it is painful and hard in a way that grounds him immediately. He makes a muffled moan and Hannibal devours his mouth, biting and sucking and nipping. Will arches into the kiss, lets Hannibal tilt his head whichever way for a better angle, opens his mouth readily. There’s blood and spit trailing down his chin which Hannibal licks away. His lower lip is a bloody mess and he tongues it as Hannibal strips him of his shirt and pants and underwear.

Hannibal drops to his knees. Will is already hard, but the sight of Hannibal, still in his suit, in front of him, makes his cock harder. Hannibal waits until Will’s gaze is on him, then goes down on Will’s cock slowly. Will can’t look away, watches as Hannibal takes him deep into his throat. His legs are about to buckle but Hannibal holds him still and sucks with barely restraint viciousness. There’s more than a hint of teeth and Will can feel the hard palate of Hannibal’s throat every time he bobs down. His thighs are shaking from the effort to keep upright and Hannibal digs his fingers into his quivering muscles, hard enough to draw blood. 

Will comes with a moan, white hot and wrung out from him. Hannibal rises to his feet in one languid movement, grabs the back of Will’s neck and slots their mouths together. Will can barely stop panting, open mouth and hot breaths, tasting himself musky and salty on Hannibal’s tongue. Hannibal bites on his sore lower lip and he groans, cock giving a painful twitch.

His mind is blissfully clear when Hannibal half drags, half carries him to the bedroom, shedding layers as he walks. He blocks everything out when he bares himself to Hannibal, begging silently. He wants this. _He wants this._

They don’t talk, Hannibal understands. There’s hardly any slick when he pushes two fingers into Will. It hurts but Will rocks back into the heel of his hand, forcing himself to relax. A third finger, then Hannibal touches just the right spot and Will keens. Finally, finally, he can let sensation drive his brain and not emotion or reason. He’s on his hands and knees, spreading himself wider.

Hannibal pulls his fingers away and Will braces himself. It burns and stretches in a completely unexpected way and Hannibal’s pace is calculated to make it ache, not slow enough to give time for Will to adjust. He fucks Will into the mattress, deep and thorough. Will groans, face pressed against an arm. Hannibal scarcely makes a sound. All he can hear is the noise of flesh slapping and labored breathing. He meets each of Hannibal’s thrusts, toes curling every time Hannibal hits his prostrate.

Will comes again with Hannibal’s teeth in his shoulder and fingers pressed around his neck. Reflexively he squeezes around Hannibal’s cock and hears Hannibal’s soft groan as he pulses, hot and heavy in him with Will’s name on his lips.

 

\--

 

Will brushes his fingers over the sheets and tracks Hannibal’s movements around the room as he pulls on pants, a robe and runs a towel through his wet hair. He knows he should shower as well. There’s come drying on his stomach and between his thighs but he can’t master enough energy to move. So he lies where he is, throbbing and hurting in all the right places.

Hannibal doesn’t come back to bed. Instead, he pulls a chair and sits facing Will, elbows resting on his knees. They stare at each other until Will turns away. He bites his lip and it stings. When he looks back, Hannibal is still there, real and present. Hannibal, who is always warm and solid and careful. Meticulous. Hannibal, who understands Will on a level no one can, who calls him out on his darkest thoughts, who makes it seem okay to think of slitting throats and murdering men. Hannibal, who had given him a thorough check, gentle and methodical, when they had finished.

Hannibal, who lied.

“Tell me what happened,” Hannibal says, breaking the silence. His reaches for Will and let fingers run against his jaw, below his chin… then pulls away abruptly. Will swallows. The only lights are from outside and they throw Hannibal’s face into sharp shadows and grave eyes. 

“I killed a stag,” Will says. “Or at least I think it was a stag… or a deer. I think I killed it.”

Hannibal pauses. “Did you kill this stag-deer?”

Sticky with blood and icy sweat. Bare hands ripping at organs, hot, alive. “It made this high whining grunts. I gutted it. There was a lot of blood,” Will whispers. “Then, I was talking to Abigail. But she disappeared. In the woods. I spent hours looking for her. Except, she was never there.”

“Will….”

“None of it actually happened.” He can’t bring himself to return Hannibal’s gaze. “There was no dead animal. By the time I got back, the only thing covering my clothes was sweat. I must have spent hours talking to a person who wasn’t there. Abigail was never there. It was all in…,” he trails off and taps a finger to his temple, three times. He lets his hand slide lifelessly back onto the bed and rubs absently, sheets soft as hair.

“When did this happen?”

“I don’t know. Before I came here? I must have not killed the deer some time ago. I was working a case.”

“The Broken Man. I read it in the papers. A form of osteoclasis.”

Will smiles painfully. “Yeah, that’s the one. I remember… I threatened to kill his sister if he didn’t tell me where the last victim was.”

Hannibal falls silent, even his breathing has changed. “Why?” he asked finally.

“I didn’t like him,” Will replies. Then laughs derisively, a choking chuckle. He covers his eyes with his arm. “The way he sat, the way he wouldn't look at anyone. He reminded me of me. They always do. They’re so like me… or I’m like them.” It started as a fantasy… then it wasn’t a fantasy anymore. 

“You’re not like them, Will.”

“Not yet.”

Hannibal sighs softly. “You know the cause and solution to this problem. How much further are you going to push yourself? Until there’s nothing left?”

Will lowers his arm. His vision is blurry. “Jack’s right,” he says hoarsely. “I can’t quit. I can’t live with myself knowing that even if little bit of me dies on the job, I might have saved someone’s life. I won’t be living if I go back to before. I’ll just exist.”

“It’s not just your mind that you’ll be losing.”

“I know,” Will says, voice low. The ceiling is clean, no cobwebs or dust, clean like a surgical room. “I won’t give in. I’ll hold out. I’d lock myself up in a mental institution before I hurt someone.” He makes room for Hannibal to settle. Long fingers brush the hair from his eyes. Hannibal’s scent is soothing, his presence is a warm enveloping weight.

“Perhaps for them, giving in to their urges was the only way to live. The only way they could survive,” Hannibal suggests. “I’m not saying it’s right,” he adds when Will tries to protest. “It’s merely their nature.”

Will grimaces. There’s a sense of déjà vu to this conversation. He can’t think. Hannibal’s hands are so gentle. “I don’t—“

“You cannot run and you cannot turn away, so you must embrace what you see.”

There it is. Hannibal’s impeccable and strange logic. It shouldn't make sense. But it does. Will is too tired to argue. “I have no idea how to do that,” he mumbles. The bed is a chasm, swallowing him and pulling him into a sea of silken sheets. Darkness is something warm and inviting, cossetting and kind.

He’s on the verge of true sleep for the first time in a very long time when Hannibal says, “I’ll show you.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the end of the trilogy. Purposefully ambiguous. Hope you guys found it satisfactory. Till next time. :)


End file.
